


Finding Middle Ground

by The_Blue_Fenix



Series: Her Middleman [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Parker Series - Donald Westlake, The Middleman (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, First Time, Truth Bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Blue_Fenix/pseuds/The_Blue_Fenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some men, you have to hit with a brick. A big brick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Undistributed Middle

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published on LiveJournal in serial form and at Fanfiction.net in September 2008.

Wendy's heart was pounding. She'd felt less nervous facing literal demons. But her hand was steady. "Boss." He turned away from the HEYDAR, saying something. It faded out when he recognized the truth bomb in her outstretched palm. A puzzled crease between his eyebrows. Before he could start a different, what's-the-meaning-of-this sort of sentence she jabbed the red button.

The energy wave swept over them. It seemed more intense, with only two people splitting the effect; Wendy swayed on her feet a little. She shaped her words carefully, a demand. "Boss. Exactly how lonely are you?"

The Middleman was feeling it too; he moved unsteadily. "It isn't so bad."

Wendy slung the dead gadget into a corner. _I thought you weren't immune to this stuff._ "Don't give me that, I know. When you stood back from Lacey, even though you wanted … it wasn't just about keeping her safe. It hurts too much, to love somebody when you can't tell what you're really doing. When you come home from a war, practically, every few days and hide the bruises. And you have to act like life's all Art Crawl and paying the car insurance and … I know. Because God, I'm doing it too. I'm backing away from Tyler and I can't tell him why because why is the problem… and you haven't even got half a life outside, like I do. And if you're really under the truth whammy how the Hell can you stand there in the lonely going not so bad?" She was almost shouting.

His tension dissolved into that wide, easy smile. "I am telling the truth. I'm not lonely, or not much ... I have you now."

Something in her chest melted, or snapped. Truth is like oxygen, too much makes you crazy drunk. "Then my other question… how tired are you of being perfect hero boss man in charge all the time?"

"God," he breathed. The man who never swore.

Wendy was out of words, even true ones. Doing was truer than saying, anyway. She held out her hand. His big square one swallowed it. He followed her in a perfect, childlike trust that made her want to cry.

His room was small and spare and white-glove-inspection clean. Of course. And a single bed, although it was longer than average. The closet was an open alcove, jackets and shirts and uniform slacks in organized sections. And nothing else. Tears stung Wendy's eyes. "You don't own any other clothes."

"If you want me to, I can…"

She stopped him with a fingertip on his lips. "You're not doing things for me. I'm doing things for you. And I love unwrapping prezzies."

He lay back on the bed when she steered him there. Wendy sat on the edge beside him at first, dazzled by the possibilities. Acres and acres and it's all mine…

She stroked his face first. Ten years older than Lacey, he'd said once, and there was no denying that. The job had worn horizontal lines across his forehead, soft puckering at the corners of his eyes. He watched her back, clear-eyed, cooperating with her pretense of controlling him. As if anyone could. She wondered who had the most experience. Sex had been about all the entertainment her crowd of friends could afford, back in art school. On his end of the scale, from SEAL to super-Boy-Scout, it could be anything.

She traced his cheekbones, the strong chin. "I could never make art this pretty." Pillow lips. But that was Lacey's word, and she wanted him to herself. Wendy leaned in, mesmerized, and let herself drown in them.

Things got a little frantic. His hand on the small of her back, pulling her down against him, the other cradling the back of her head. Can't get up, don't wanna. But his grip loosened instantly when she shifted.

There was something crazy about the knot on this necktie. Or her hands were shaking. Wendy managed it, started on his shirt buttons. "Maybe I'm wrong. I know I'm the chick, but there could be such a thing as too much foreplay."

"Yes, ma'am." She felt the laughter under his words, rumbling through where their chests touched.

He played fair, only moving enough to let Wendy pull the jacket and shirt off him without shredding them. No t-shirt. Only a few scattered hairs on his chest, and no scars in spite of the life he'd led. The long smooth muscles were perfect, Michelangelo's David turned warm and breathing.

Wendy fumbled with her own shirt and tie -- damn knot again. Just her luck she was wearing a shabby, too-often-washed bra today. By the gleam in his eyes, the Middleman didn't seem to have noticed. His hands stirred. Wendy straddled his stomach at last and guided them up. "You can do this part."

He started at waist level, trailing fingers up her spine to open the fasteners with one quick flick. And on up; she'd never known the nape of her neck was so sensitive. He guided her down, breathed in deeply between her breasts before brushing his lips over one pebbled nipple. Wendy yelped, mashed herself tighter against him. "Holy crap, what are you _not_ good at…" She pumped her hips, slid further down his body.

Stopped, eyes wider. He froze as well, the tension she'd tried to smooth away back in his face. His other hand traced the front of her hipbone. "You're so tiny."

"You just think that because you're a telephone pole." His face went blank; Wendy growled frustration. "Tall, I mean. Girls are stretchy." She rubbed against him again, felt him jump through both their layers of clothing. "If you can't already tell, I … God, I can't talk dirty to you. I am way flaps down and ready for a landing, get me?" Even the indirect words made her stomach muscles tremble and jerk like an instant of electricity. She leaned forward again, buried her face against the side of his neck. "You smell so good. Didn't know soapy-clean was better than cologne."

The laugh rumbled under her again. Most of the tension left his face, not quite all. "It's been a long time. If I'm too quick…"

"Have I ever not said, if something didn't suit me?" Wendy clawed at his waistband.

One long, glorious slide…. She sat bolt upright on him, keening like a maniac. His hands on her waist, cupping her butt, she was going to be bruised tomorrow. More, dammit. Wendy squeezed him back. He made a small, helpless noise and gave her everything.

Absolutely everything. Wendy was staring into his eyes when he went quiet; they were a thousand times more naked than his body. There's no one-nighter, no friendly playing around. He's not made that way. Such a light in his face, looking at her now. Something else too beautiful to paint. She slumped down half on, half beside him; his arms folded around her. She felt a tear where her cheek leaned on his, wondered who it belonged to.

"Dubbie." She felt his deep voice rumble through them, felt him swallow. "Wendy Watson. I should tell you my name."

From him, that was far more intimate than the sex. Maybe too much. She covered his lips. "I like nicknames. Gonna call you mine."

"It's a deal." He snuggled her into a more comfortable position. His breathing slowed into deep sleep.

Wendy lay still but far from asleep, tingling with release and happiness and what the hell have I gotten myself into? A blinking red light caught her attention, in the corner of her eye.

He'd worn the MiddleWatch throughout it all, something neither of them had noticed. And a single line of text glowed on the watch face: _If you hurt him, I'll tear you to pieces._

Ida. "It's a deal," Wendy whispered.


	2. Just the Middleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's got to be a morning after. Or late afternoon.

The crisp white sheets smelled like soap and sunlight and a hint of sex. Wendy drowsed in the arms of a beautiful man. He loved her, he would die for her, and, she was now learning, he didn't even snore. Warm, comfortable, sated … she couldn't think of a reason in the world to move.

Especially since she had no idea what in Hell to do after that.

_Like in the old war movies. 'Honey, I don't know if I'm coming back from this mission, so let's do it.'_ There had been a lot of missions. In the six -- no, eight months now -- since she'd met him, they'd risked their lives together countless times. There was the I'm-gonna-die adrenalin, and then the thank-God-I-didn't-die adrenalin. At the end of the roller coaster he'd still be beside her, patching up whatever scrapes she'd suffered and praising her courage in that warm, rumbly voice. Repeat the dance enough times, and a girl was bound to notice that her partner was one of the most drop-dead gorgeous men anywhere…

So she'd gotten in his bed. Be fair; she'd gotten _him_ here, with tactics just short of dragging him. Wendy had no complaints about the outcome. She'd just never thought this far ahead.

She felt him stirring. There was no way to miss it, with the two of them spooned into a single bed. _Pretend to be asleep! For the next ten years!_ But that was dumb. He started stroking her hair. Wendy wiggled around until she was facing him. "Hi there," she squeaked. _Squeaked? Pull yourself together, dammit dammit..._

"Hello." The Middleman raised himself on one elbow.

"Hey, boss, How's it ... I mean, was it ... Oh God, am I still in the truth bomb whammy?"

"After at least an hour and a sudden spike in blood endorphins? Not the slightest chance." One corner of his mouth quirked up. "You're on your own, Dubbie."

Radical honesty had gotten her this far. "I'd rather rip my own head off than hurt your feelings. Boss. But maybe I already did." She sat up. The sheet slipped; she had more on her mind that covering up. "What you need, it's so heavy-duty..."

He sat up, making no more effort toward sheet-covering than she had. Wendy searched his expression, dreading the first hint of pain.

He cupped her cheek in one hand, running his thumb across her lips. "I do need you. I always will. But there's a difference between need and want."

His hands slipped down, covering Wendy's. _Oh God he wants me to marry him just because we did it..._

"Your generosity just now," the Middleman said instead. "Being with you ... yes, I want that. Even once is a miracle. But what I _need_ is the partnership. Your sharp mind, your courage ... your knack for survival. I need the next Middleman, for when I'm gone. Whether I can have you like this, too ... you'll have to tell me when you decide."

She was braced for him to pressure her. Not for this. "When you say you're just the Middleman, you mean that's _all_ you are. Not a person. With a life."

He only nodded, as if that were a normal thing to be instead of full-on crippling crazy. "I mean that if the two things are in conflict, I've already made my choice. I don't claim it's an attractive quality. But I can't hide it from a partner -- either kind."

Okay, not deep-down-deathly needy was good. But there could be _some_. Wendy gritted her teeth. "Do you even care what kind of partner?"

He reached out, cradled the back of her head and drew her in. "Enormously." Soft warm lips, deep enough to drown in. Nothing wrong with drowning…

Then he drew back again. "We're out of normal working hours. Go home, eat, watch a zombie movie. Connect to your own life, find out where I fit into it. We have time."

"Do _not_ say that. I've seen Bond movies, nobody lives ten minutes after saying that." Wendy grabbed the doorknob, bracing for a serious exit-line slam. "You make me nuts."

"But you should probably dress first."

She looked down. He wasn't teasing. Nothing to see here, top to toes, except a butterfly she'd gotten on her first spring break. "Crap." She dived for her clothes. She got his white shirt first try, changed to the other one. He sat watching, heroically not laughing at her.

"Your fault I forgot, anyway." Wendy patted her hair semi-organized, wondered how rumpled she looked. Met his eyes squarely. "Naked with you feels natural. Can't be a bad sign."

"Any psychologist would agree." The Middleman's voice was soft. "A bit of weight for my side of the scales."

"Yeah." Wendy looked away. "Free hint? Single bed is _not_ bonus points, especially when you're big ol' Slab Beefcake football guy. They do make bigger sizes. Memo for next time."

_Next time_ hung in the air between them. His eyes were brighter than ever. "Memo noted. Good night, Dubbie."


	3. Stuck in the Middle With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: did I mention, my favorite writer plots by the "what's the worst thing I can do to these characters?" rule.  
> Location: an illegal sublet, etc. etc.  
> Mood: country music. The music of pain.  
> Rating: NC-17 for the way kids today talk when MM isn't around.

Her cell had collected five messages -- Tyler, Lacey, Tyler, Tyler, and Lacey -- in the two hours she'd been away from it. She didn't have the courage to play them. It took all her battle-hardened, Sensei-Ping-trained nerve to go home at all instead of hijacking a plane to Cuba.

Noser was tuning up on the landing outside the elevator, as usual. "Hey, Wendy Watson."

"Hey Noser." She almost never took a turn at Stump the Band. _Torn between two lovers_. "Feelin' like a fool."

His Zen calm rattled. Noser shook his head regretfully. "Breakin' all the rules."

"Yeah. I got that." Wendy hoped against hope that she could be alone with her first-person-shooter for a while.

Some chance. "Dub-dub!" Lacey hit her just inside the door with a cross between a hug and a flying tackle. Wendy managed not to respond with Leaping Water or anything equally lethal.

Lacey let go, grinning a mile wide. "So, are you nervous or excited? You look excited. You should see your aura, charkas lit up like Broadway. What are you going to wear?" She paused for breath. And kept pausing. "He caught you, right? Tyler?"

 _Not inside the MiddleQuarters he didn't_. Wendy's jaw dropped. "Lacey, the _hell_?"

"You got the messages, right? I know, surprise. But he couldn't resist telling me while we were hanging around waiting. So he's at work, he goes Wendy is into sushi, maybe I can afford the good stuff now. And Manservant Neville goes, I have a corporate account at a great place, _in Osaka_ , and Tyler goes …"

"I am a total shit." Wendy shed her purse and jacket. "God, I am evil."

Lacey took a step back. "You didn't get the messages. The struck-by-lightning vibe. It isn't one thing to do with Tyler, is it?"

"I didn't mean to." She sat down on a plastic milk crate. "Okay, I meant to but I didn't think he'd take me up on it. I thought I was kidding. Sort of."

"You cheated on Tyler."

 _Damn best-friend telepathy, anyway._ "I cheated on Tyler. Or I've been cheating on _him_ , with Tyler, and I didn't know it. Oh man…"

Lacey knelt down beside her. "Wendy. Tell me the truth." She locked eyes. "God. Pillow Lips."

"They're not all that pillowy close in, just medium really …"

"You cheated on Tyler with Pillow Lips."

"I kind of rocked him like a hurricane, to be honest…"

"Uh-huh." Not Lacey's voice. Not even close.

Wendy sat up, heart pounding. Tyler Ford had a tuxedo. And a bottle of champagne in his hands. And a look like she'd shot him in the gut.

He moved out of the doorway, the muscles in his jaw working. The sweet-starving-musician hurt look shifted. Then Tennis-Bracelet-Guy was glaring at her, and Wendy wondered if he was in charge for good. "I like how you like your job. I even like how you like your boss. But I'm pretty sure _don't fuck him_ was understood in there somewhere."

Wendy stood up. "Okay, I had that coming."

"I know I don't fuck _my_ boss, and he's a pretty nice guy too…"

"Tyler."

"Pays well, and truth is I think he may swing a little bi, the rumor mill…"

"Tyler, I'm _sorry_."

"Yeah?" He clutched the champagne bottle like a grenade. "Which sorry is that? 'It was crazy, it was once, I just quit my job and I'm never going to see him again' sorry? Or 'you're a nice guy, you'll find somebody better, we can still be friends' sorry?"

Lacey had both hands over her mouth, backing away, eyes streaming tears. Neither of them knew she was still there. The silence stretched.

"Gotcha." Tyler set the bottle down on the floor, fingers working with the effort of not throwing it. "Sorry you got caught sorry."

"I wasn't going to lie. I hadn't figured out how to tell you."

"Yeah. Get the words just right and it won't hurt. Monica said something like that too." The musician was back in his eyes. "Doesn't work. Do me one favor, though. Don't give me the pity-sex offer, about we don't have to be exclusive. I never wanted to play well with others. Definitely not from the minute I saw you."

 _Neither would he._ Wendy's eyes were blurring. "I know you don't deserve this."

"Good for me." A sick grin. "Mind if I keep the wine? He probably doesn't drink anyway."

Tyler wanted a way out besides a breakup, she knew. He'd forgive her in a heartbeat, really forgive, if she'd choose him. But that would mean saying goodbye to the Middleman. She wouldn't be able to work side by side after this and be a good girl. Goodbye to the work. Wendy was surprised to find that the decision was already made, and that work had tipped the balance.

Tyler read it in her eyes; he knew her too well. _Still. Always._ "Maybe if you'd met me first," he whispered.

 _Maybe_. She loved him as much as ever, and it would be sheer cruelty to say so. "Goodbye, Tyler." _It's got to be goodbye. Otherwise we'll kill each other._

Then he was gone. Wendy's composure held after the door closed; ten seconds, twenty. _He'll be out of earshot by now._ She sank down, on her hands and knees in her good work clothes, weeping.

Cool arms around her. "Dub-dub, sweetie." She buried her face in Lacey's shoulder. "Men suck, all of them. They aren't worth it."

"Yes they are." Wendy sniffled and hugged Lacey back.

"Well, don't tell them. Not even Pillow Lips. They can't handle the truth."

She felt a different trickle of fear, just as cold. "You were interested in him, too." _If I lose one more person today, I'm jumping off a cliff._

Lacey pretended to think about it. "Yeah. I was going to ask, what _about_ that no-dating policy at work?" But she grinned. "That is a world-class chest. And considerate ... lots of pretty on the inside, too." Lacey shook her head. "But he's not all pretty, is he?"

The mobster's face had gone _crunch_ on the side of the car, while her new boss babbled like the Milk Marketing Board. "No. Honest, brave ... not all pretty."

"I could see him keeping things back, trying not to scare me off," Lacey said. "But you're not afraid."

 _I'm getting dangerous too._ Wendy looked down at her hands. She hadn't done it yet, but she knew sixty sets of moves for killing an armed man with them. She wondered if Lacey would see the change when it happened, fear her too. "No. Never afraid of him. Maybe for him."

"Better you than me, then." Lacey gave her a companionable shove on the shoulder. "So. Breakup survival plan number three, ice cream and _Reaper Madness_?"

"Out of ice cream." Wendy felt a bit more like herself. "Two-A?"

"We watched Hugh Grant last time. Plan one?"

"I think Noser has our _Willie Wonka_ disk. Brand new plan. Sangria punch, hold the punch, and _Manos the Hands of Fate_."

"You're right. You're evil." Lacey patted her cheek. "Maybe with a box of kleenex. Movies of that suckitude might make us cry a little."

"Nothing wrong with a little." _Thank God for best-friend telepathy_. "I'll make the punch," said Wendy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:  
> 1\. Never ever throw a bottle of champagne. I wasn't kidding about the grenade metaphor. The combination of compressed gas and glass shrapnel has killed people, no lie. Tyler of course had no such intentions.  
> 2\. God bless the Laceys of this world. How would any of us survive the date-and-breakup cycle of post-college life without one?


	4. Middle Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Software upgrades, interior decorating, and a new (crosssover) mission.

The main control room -- the space with the HEYDAR and the other key tools of the Middle-Organization -- was empty when Wendy turned up the next morning. She was happy about that. She could use a little breathing space to get her professional composure on before starting the work day.

Yesterday she'd made her boss an offer he pretty much couldn't refuse involving him, her, and a bedroom upstairs. He hadn't refused, either. Last night -- and no, that was not the fairest order to do things in -- she'd broken up with her up-to-then boyfriend Tyler. Today was bound to be interesting.

She jumped when one of the doors opened, but it was only Ida. The evil-aunt-shaped robot who was the nerve center of the organization had managed to avoid coming near Wendy since yesterday. Ida settled behind her desk and opened a newspaper to the horoscopes. _Nobody here but me,_ her body language said.

Wendy was used to Ida's vocal dislike, but this was too much. "So, are we going to throw down now? Because I'll tell you once, Anne Droid, I'm not going to blow off the cutdowns any more. Not if they're about him and sex."

Ida looked at a point in midair, as if she were in an empty room "New alpha priority direct order: 'If you can't speak civilly to Dubbie, then don't say anything to her at all.'" The last sentence was a passable imitation of the Middleman's voice.

Wendy stood blinking, startled. Then grinned. "Really? You're not setting me up?" No response. "Well jiminy jeepers, as boss would say. That's gotta be tough. Are you feeling all right?

Silence.

"Because I think I smell some transistors burning. Snarking at me is practically your whole personality, isn't it?"

Ida gave Wendy a look like a librarian who'd caught a book burner. She slid a folded piece of paper across the desk. "This is for you." she snarled. "Middleman-Trainee Watson."

Wendy snickered, and took it. _Level seven, room 21. Feel free to change anything you don't like._ The note waswrapped around a magnetic key card. "I should have known you'd have impeccable penmanship, boss." She turned toward the elevator.

Level seven was half long-term records storage and half living quarters. She'd never been up here much until yesterday. _Afternoon delight_. Her Middleman's bedroom door was closed. Room 21, a few doors further down, was on the corner. The electronic lock had a black glass circle as well as the slot for the key card; it came open when Wendy passed her MiddleWatch close to the handle. _That'll be handy_.

Wendy stopped a step inside the door, a lump in her throat. She'd made it known yesterday that the Middleman's extra-long twin bed was too small for two. This room had a king sized bed.

It wasn't a duplicate of her room back at the illegal sublet; that would have been creepy. But the furniture was laid out much the same, even to an easel and art table near the window. "North light, suitable for painting." She'd done a preliminary sketch for a "Mission of the Week" painting here once, then crunched it up and left it lying around. The big sketch, carefully flattened -- ironed, she suspected -- was matted and framed under glass above the bed. "Holy shit."

She positively _felt_ a wince behind her, and turned. He was just outside the door. "…Shinola. Whatever that is," she said. "I thought you were going to get a bigger bed for _your_ room."

"You deserve your own space here. We certainly don't work regular hours." The Middleman looked faintly nervous, but only someone who knew him as well as Wendy would have noticed. "I moved a few of your spare uniforms from the locker room. You have a full bath."

Wendy breathed, and fell back on the increasingly successful blurting-things-out maneuver. "Boss, I don't want to move in. Or at least not yet. I'm not ready."

"No! I, I certainly understand."

Wendy relaxed; he meant it, by that look of sheer terror on his face. "As a Middleman -- even an apprentice Middleman -- you have an absolute right to any available quarters on site, but historically it's been more common to reside outside the complex. Maintaining a separate social identity…"

"Boss." She kissed him, just on the cheek. "Thank you. It's very thoughtful. And gotta say, I would _not_ have guessed you could coordinate colors. This must have kept you up all night."

"Balderdash. There was an ample choice of furniture in storage in other parts of the building." He shrugged.

Wendy moved to the side of the bed, pressed down on the covers. "Hypollergenic down-alternative comforter."

"My predecessor had trouble getting a good night's sleep."

"Hah." She pointed at her sketch. "Custom sized frame, acid-free archival quality matting, no-glare glass. Don't kid me about art. How'd you manage that?"

"I … a craft center owner feels he owes me a favor. Poltergeist infestation in his collectible doll department a few years back."

"I said nutjob, first thing. I was so right." Wendy flopped back on the edge of the bed. "Come on, relax." He sat, with more correct posture but close to her. "When I said get a bigger bed, I figured it was going to be your bed."

"I'd rather not." He hesitated. "I've slept alone in big beds. I'd be trying to find you all night."

The voice of experience. "I'd never thought you spent your whole life as Captain Celibacy," Wendy said. "Hey, if nothing else I can't be the only woman able to throw a brick when a gentle hint doesn't work. A _big_ brick."

His smile this time was the sunny one she loved. "Did I say thank you, incidentally? For having a big brick on hand?"

"Couldn't say. Orgasms mess with my short-term memory."

Faint lines appeared on his forehead; she sighed. "I'm still off balance on this. I can do partner, I can do trainee, I can do wild hot … privileges. Everything in one person is a whole lot bigger deal."

"It is." This time he kissed her on the cheek, pulled her to his side in a half-hug. "But you were already 'a big deal' ten seconds after I'd met you."

"Ten seconds? I was covered in monster blood."

"But very much in control. I think I said so at the time."

Wendy leaned against his shoulder, let the silence go for a while. It felt comfortable. "I broke up with Tyler last night."

"I'm sorry."

"He's sweet; I felt rotten. But I couldn't lie to him. You're rubbing off on me."

"Perhaps not until we've checked the morning reports," the Middleman said blandly.

"You!"

It turned out she was ticklish. It turned out he had a sixth sense for the most sensitive parts of her neck. The learning process was going slowly but well when their watches beeped. "Code fifteen, confirmed," Ida said. "Middleman and … trainee Middleman, please report to the control room. Crawl out … please report immediately."

"You're going to have to take out that make-nice order," Wendy remarked. "She's going to rupture something."

He shrugged. "Why do you say code fifteen, Ida?"

"Police report says a robbery-homicide at an antique store, arson to cover it up. But witnesses say a lightning strike started the fire."

Wendy straightened her blouse collar. "There wasn't a thunderstorm last night."

"Also, the dead store owner's head was found ten feet from the body."

"We'll be right down," the Middleman said.


	5. Middle Aged

"While there can be only one Middleman, there are other organizations dealing with extra- ultra- and juxta-worldly incursions whom we regard as allies," he said a few minutes later, downstairs. "Many of them, as in this instance the Unified Watchers, deal with very specific phenomena. Have we liased with the Watchers, Ida?"

"Took a while to get the number for their new headquarters," Ida said. "I _told_ you I need more monitoring bandwidth. They want us to sit tight until they get their own man on the scene."

"Not on our own natural-grass turf," said the Middleman. "Tell them… no, first give us the police reports."

"How about, what's a code fifteen and why does it make people's heads fall off?" Wendy put in.

"Quite right. A relatively common parallel- or near-human species; the cladistics are unclear," he said. "Invisibly integrated into human society for a minimum of five thousand years. They're almost undetectable except by each other, partially because each individual is raised human. They call themselves Immortals. After a fatal wound or other injury, they apparently die but revive spontaneously a median of eighteen-point-six minutes later…"

"… Which explains the name…"

"… with the sole exception…"

"… let me get this one, of having their heads cut off," said Wendy. "Am I close?"

"Well guessed, Dubbie. An Immortal beheaded alone simply dies. An Immortal beheaded by or near another Immortal gives off an intense psuedo-electro-magnetic plasma, a "Quickening", which Immortals believe represents the soul or life energy. This plasma is absorbed into the non-beheaded Immortal, theoretically making him or her stronger."

"Boom boom antique store," said Wendy. "So these Watchers go capping Immortals?"

"By no means." The Middleman looked scandalized. "As a group, Immortals are no more good nor evil than normal humans. Watchers record their activities _sub rosa_ as historians. For the most part Immortals are only a danger to each other. Because of the properties of absorbing another's 'Quickening', they often duel the death. Normally with swords. The police have the wrong end of the folded-steel katana in this case. This is the aftermath of an Immortal death-duel; any valuables missing from the scene are likely a coincidence."

"The cops are still on the scene; apparently it's a sticky one," Ida said. "All we know is what we hear on the scanner."

"There's nothing like firsthand information. Come along, Dubbie."

She'd seen blood and death and the inside of several alien species since meeting the Middleman. The sickening sweetness of burned human was something new. She stood white-faced and silent while he got them past the crime scene tape. "Dr. Allard and my associate, Dr. Cranston, forensic dentists." Once they were out of earshot, he pressed a small glass jar into her hand. "Mentholated salve. Put some on your upper lip and just inside the nostrils. It helps."

"Did you ever get the queasy like this?"

"Every time."

She felt a little better. "What do we look for first?"

"What the police aren't -- the results of the duel per se. Two swords swinging in a crowded store would do tremendous damage. If we can distinguish that from fire damage, we may gain some insights. Even an estimate of the killer's height will help."

"Okay." Wendy wasn't sure where to start, but she gave it a shot. The antique store had been by itself in a converted old wooden house. The fire had eaten out the middle of the roof and walls, leaving mostly the corners of the building standing. Inside the hole was mostly ashes and crispy burned things, soaked from the fire hoses. Wendy stayed far from the long, sheet-covered lump at one end of the ruin, where most of the police were gathered.

She picked a careful path through the debris, her boss moving in parallel a few feet away. At closer range, the shapes of the objects made more sense. "These would be sharp, heavy swords we're looking for."

"To behead a man at one blow? Certainly."

"I know I'm new at this, but none of this looks _chopped_ to me. Burnt, shattered, wooden stuff split along the grain, but not chopped."

"I think you're right."

"Also, the robbery?" Wendy waded through ashes and puddles to an old-fashioned safe the size of a small fridge. Smashed open and empty. "Boss, I think the cops nailed that part."

"Well done, Dubbie." He looked up. Wendy followed his glance. A thin young man in a loose-necked sweater was picking his way toward them. "Act forensic," her boss muttered.

The stranger stopped a few feet away and studied them with a sardonic air. "You must be the Middlemen." His voice was pure Oxford and Cambridge. "Adam Pierson." He showed the inside of his left wrist, a palm-sized tattoo.

"Watcher identification mark," the Middleman confirmed. "My trainee, Wendy Watson. You got here fast."

"I was already on the West Coast," Pierson said. "This was definitely a Quickening. But I don't think it was a fair duel." He glanced over at the police, slid an object out from under his sweater. It was a heavy butcher knife, slightly scorched and deeply stained. "Our late friend's skull was half crushed, presumably before the beheading. I doubt swords entered into this at all."

"That probably doesn't matter much to the dead guy," Wendy said.

"But it does matter. Our customs may be medieval, but they're all the law and order we have."

The Middleman shifted his weight, coming to full alert. "We?"

Pierson smiled. "The other reason the Watchers sent me. Four years into my career I had a massive case of food poisoning. I died... and later I was alive. After some discussion on the Council, I was allowed to stay that way. I hadn't meant to betray them, after all." He looked the Middleman straight in the eye. "It's a big city. But if I'm within fifty meters or so of another Immortal, I'll sense him. And vice versa."

"We need a full list of Immortals known to be living here or traveling through the area," said the Middleman. "The Watchers track them individually; you must be able to correlate the data."

Pierson looked sheepish. "We had a central database a few years ago; it rather came back to bite us," he said. "I can get you those names, but it will take time. And my instincts say this is an undocumented Immortal."

Wendy was watching the group of police. "Guys. We're getting some weird looks from over there."

"They're looking for me then," Pierson said. "I'll probably have to examine the body, or at least the head; I said I was the forensic dentist."

"So did we." There was an awkward silence.

"Run?" Wendy suggested.

"Draws too much attention," said Pierson. "Stroll. Get around the corner, then run."

Adam Pierson seemed unruffled by the oddities of the Middle HQ, including the HEYDAR and the visible cable bundles coming out of Ida's back. The Middleman introduced him in a few words. "He'll be dealing with the Immortal end of the problem, Ida, so search the FBI databases for like crimes without the beheading and burning buildings down part. This may well have started as simple theft."

"So, armed robbery of places with lots of antique jewelry? Yeah, that'll be a short list," Ida grumbled.

Wendy found a seat, a wicked look in her eyes. "Can you get me some coffee while you're up? Double caff, double sugar."

Ida ground to an audible halt. "No. I cannot. Trainee Watson." She shook her head and stumped back to her desk.

Adam looked after her. "I'm no robotics expert, but is that normal?"

"Not really." The Middleman glanced at Wendy; she shrugged. "Ida, cancel latest alpha priority command. Return to system defaults."

Ida stood frozen for a moment, then came back to herself. "CRAP! Boss, if it wasn't for that damn First Law I could so knock you around."

"Now, now. Can we rely on your good manners and professionalism to keep a cheerful working environment, or will I have to reinstate the override?"

"Yeah, yeah." Ida turned to her HEYDAR interface. "Like crimes. I'm working on it."

"Hey there Ida, long time no see," Wendy chirped, grinning.

The robot refused to look at her. "Hophead."

It probably wasn't going to get much better than that. Wendy went ahead and got her own coffee.

When she returned, Adam Pierson was on the telephone giving detailed and obscure search instructions to his own offices. "About four hours," he said. "I have a suspect in mind, but I want another look at the raw data before I jump to conclusions." He sat back. "I've never been here before. One of our Council members, Joe Dawson, had a joint mission with a Middleman about fifteen years ago. Probably before your time."

The Middleman made an uninformative noise. "Definitely before _your_ time," Adam continued smoothly, to Wendy. "How did you get into this line of work?"

"How does anybody? Clerical job, temp to perm, killer mutants, super-intelligent gorillas." Wendy was enjoying herself. "You?"

"Graduate school. I chose the wrong thesis topic and got in too deep."

"I should've guessed that. You kind of have a neon GRAD STUDENT sign hanging over your head."

"I wore a tweed blazer one winter and was accidentally put up for tenure."

The Middleman looked a little miffed; Wendy gave him a half-second melting glance. _I'm not going anywhere_. He relaxed.

"I hope I'll have the chance to see your archives while I'm in the States," Pierson said genially. "The cross-correlations -- truth to tell I'm a librarian at heart, swords or no swords."

"Ida can show you," the Middleman said. Adam wandered off toward the records room.

"I don't trust him," the Middleman muttered. "I'm going to talk to Watcher headquarters myself. It's just too convenient for him to be Immortal, and so close by, when an Immortal kills someone. Find out what they know about him, what he's capable of."

"Seriously? He seems like a fluffy puppy to me," Wendy said. "In a completely platonic, professional way of course. When I was in college there were three of him sitting in every Starbucks', looking intellectual and esoteric. Working on a doctorate in something nobody had ever heard of. I'm only surprised he doesn't write poetry."

Middleman raised his eyebrows. "I've written poetry."

She'd heard that in passing, at some point. Well, no relationship could be perfect. "Does it rhyme, at least? I'm telling you, I got enough free verse in art college to hold me for about a thousand years. Free verse, nobody can point at a rule and say, this makes it suck."

"It rhymes. You don't have to read any if you don't want to."

"I didn't say that. I will, honestly. Maybe after the case?"

There was a computer terminal in one corner of the archive, although the Middleman preferred having Ida work through her direct links. Wendy had installed "Gut Wrencher Complete" and "Halo 3" on it for slow days. When Wendy checked the room, around lunchtime, Adam Pierson was printing a long document. "My hunch is confirmed," he said. "Or at least, nothing at all rules it out. The files just came through."

Wendy raised her Middle-Watch. "Boss, we've got something. Archive room."

Pierson leaned back in his desk chair, watching her genially. "I couldn't help noticing that you and the man with no name have a certain chemistry."

"We're just … good friends. Who have wild hot monkey sex sometimes." Wendy knew she was blushing bright red; she looked down. "It's new. It's probably crazy. But I want to run around singing at the top of my lungs."

Adam had an enchanting grin. "Enjoy it, then. These things don't come along every day. Some of my people live for centuries without true love."

"Yeah." Wendy's smile faded. "What's it like?"

"Immortality? I told you, I've only been Immortal ten years. I spend most of my time doing this." A wave took in the stacks of dusty books. "For me so far, it's meant not losing any more hair and never getting flu. But I've read as many Chronicles as I could lay hands on. An Immortal can live through centuries, wars and disasters, the rise and fall of cultures. The worst is outliving the normal people you love. And the disconnection -- we have no continuity, no real society of our own. Because there are never any children, either with mortals or with each other. We … float in a sea of humans, pretending to be part of their world."

He seemed upset; Wendy looked for a more neutral question. "Boss said you guys have been around for five thousand years."

"That's our best estimate; no proof. The Watchers were founded considerably later." Adam looked at her. "Most Immortals believe their oldest living member is a man called Methos, though hard evidence of his existence is hard to come by. He's said to be five thousand years old." Adam shrugged. "How would anyone know, even him? So many years, so many changes of calendar. If you asked him where he was born he wouldn't be able to tell you a continent or a country, just something like 'the village at the fork of the two big rivers.' Certainty about the past becomes irretrievable."

"Harsh," Wendy said.

He studied her more closely, though still with friendly eyes. "I have a question, but it's unforgivably personal."

"Hey, I can take it. Shoot."

"There's a certain air one can come to recognize … were you adopted?"

That _was_ personal; Wendy stared. "Yeah. I don't talk about it. I guess boss knows, they did all sorts of research when I joined here. Boat people from Cuba. I was found on the beach near Miami, about a year old. The cops never found any relatives, maybe they didn't make it. Mom and Dad … one of the reasons they picked me was that Mom was a _Marielista_ herself, way before I was born." Wendy laced her fingers together in her lap. "It's not like I care. Mom and Dad never acted like anything less than real parents."

"I can see they did a fine job," Adam Pierson said softly.

The library door opened. the Middleman looked rushed but not upset. _I guess the Watchers vouched for our new guy_. "He said he found the killer," Wendy said.

Adam spread his printouts on one of the tables. Wendy and her boss took seats beside it. "I'd feel better if we could pin this down with fingerprints. And it's not much of a step toward finding him in the flesh. But the most likely candidate is a partially documented Immortal. In our first record of him he killed a prison guard, 1962, escaping from a labor farm. We're fairly sure he was freshly Immortal then. Your choice of names: Ronald Kaspar, Charles Willis, or no-first-name Parker. An expert in the armed robbery industry. At least two Watchers have disappeared while attempting to trail him when we _could_ account for his movements; one was found with a broken neck."

The Middleman nodded. "That fits last night's murder."

"He's one of our bad boys, yes. Associates, places of residence, other ties ... unknown. Although of course his Chronicle, his dossier is virtually empty. This is interesting, no record that he's ever had a teacher."

"The wha?" Wendy asked.

"Normally one of two things happens to newly changed Immortals. One of our kindlier souls takes him in and teaches him the rules of The Game until he can protect himself. Or, one of our less kindly takes an easy kill," Pierson said. "Neither of these things happened to Kaspar-Willis-Parker. He figured the rules out somehow, though. He's taken two confirmed Quickenings, leaving out last night." Adam tapped on the page. "Not recorded as ever having carried a sword; that clinches it, in my mind. Immortals either avoid fights at all costs -- we can't attack each other on holy ground -- or carry swords for self-defense. Only a very few of the youngest break that custom."

"I was meaning to ask," Wendy said. "With all the ka-boom, how do they -- I mean you guys -- keep this kind of thing secret at all? Huge flaming pillar of light in my neighborhood, guy turns up with no head, _I'd_ notice."

Adam grinned. "It's a problem, yes. Sometimes the Watcher in question steps in afterward and does a bit of cleaning; sometimes people report a UFO. The more tidy-minded Immortals take their duels to the most deserted stretches of countryside they can find on short notice. Sometimes in mid-fight. An Immortal with a knife in his heart, for example, can't heal and revive until it's taken out. Then the winner can transport him to a quiet spot for beheading and body disposal."

"The whole thing is unconscionable," the Middleman said. "Brutal. Beings who could use their long lives to help society -- historians, artists, philosophers -- butchering each other for sport."

"More societies in history have practiced dueling than haven't," Adam said. "And we're no wiser or more contemplative than anyone else. A Quickening … is an intense experience, I'm told, a difficult craving to resist. Immortals believe that in the end there can be only one, a single Immortal carrying the Quickenings of all the others who have ever lived. A demi-god … no one knows for sure. I'd rather keep my head, personally."

The Middleman looked like he was reserving judgment. "You were also going to check Immortals who are _known_ , not suspected, to be in the city right now."

"And I have." Adam slid a smaller stack of paper across the table. "Five known, two of them a married couple. Their Watchers give all of them firm alibis. Maybe not for the entire night, but with monitoring gaps too few and too small for one of them to get to

that antique store and back."

The Middleman nodded. "Your theory sounds good so far." He touched his watch. "Ida. Data searches on a Charles Willis, a Ronald Kaspar, and a Parker."

"Parker what?" her voice came back.

"Er, do the best you can with those first two," he corrected himself. "Not just known residents but anyone with a connection to one of those names."

"I'm looking at the census data now, cowboy," Ida replied. "Two million Willises in North America. But I'll try."

"Thank you."

Ida also had sandwiches delivered from a nearby lunch counter; the Jolly Fats Wehawkin Employment Agency had a standing account. Adam was offering Wendy the last of his salt-and-vinegar chips (the Middleman avoided tropical oils) when Ida came into the archive in person. "Boss. Another one."

"A dead Immortal?" the Middleman asked.

"Dead yes, immortal not so you'd notice," Ida said. "A fence's shop downtown, robbed and the owner decapitated with a machete out of his sporting goods section. No fireworks."

"There's no reason to behead a mortal, not for one of us," Pierson said. "He must be mad."

"Maybe he was selling the jewelry from the other robbery," Wendy said. "If some of it turns up at this scene, that would settle it."

Adam Pierson looked at her as if she were five years old. "He's a thief and a murderer. Why leave valuables behind?"

"Well yeah. That, I guess."

"Ida," the Middleman said flatly. "The internal monitoring is on automatic. Was Mr. Pierson in our archives all morning?"

"He sure was. Well, once to the coffee machine and once to the bathroom."

Adam raised his eyebrows. "I am deeply, deeply hurt." He sounded amused.

"Just being thorough." The Middleman wasn't going to apologize. "Crime scene, then."

They didn't dare try to get inside the smashed-up pawnshop itself; at least two of the detectives in the street outside were familiar faces from this morning. The police department could hardly have missed the similarities in its only two beheadings that year. They parked the MiddleMobile as near as they dared. Wendy, who had been the least conspicuous at the previous murder, changed her look with a ponytail and a pair of sunglasses and left to mingle with the onlookers for stray leads.

Adam Pierson had taken the back seat; the Middleman turned to look at him. "Are you close enough to sense if another Immortal did this? Could you track him?"

"I'm not a bloodhound. If he were still in the building, yes. Once he's out of range -- and he is, if this was him -- your guess is as good as mine. Though I'm proud of my sensing ability, fifty meters is a long way. And I can sense which mortals will become immortal, if they should happen to die a sudden violent death. Not all of us can do that by any means." No answer.

Pierson studied his host, amused lines showing around his mouth again. "You don't have to like me to use me as a resource, you know. And you'd be a fool to worry. You couldn't blast the young lady loose from you with dynamite."

"I prefer not to discuss personal matters," the Middleman said grimly.

"So you wouldn't answer if I asked, are you adopted?" Pierson pressed on, ignoring all hints.

The Middleman stared at him, face utterly blank. "Why do you ask?"

Adam held up both hands, palm out. "Maybe there's a newspaper or something I can read back here."

 _This got harder every year. No cash payrolls or other large amounts of money in transit like in the old days. Even the last big job, the bank move, had been a fiasco. All his old partners were dying off or asking why he hadn't aged; one or two had died_ of _asking why he hadn't aged. Parker hated doing that. Younger mechanics he might partner with weren't cracking safes any more; computer fraud paid better. He'd tried, but going from two-fingered typing to hacking for money was too much of a learning cliff to scale._

_Smaller robberies had never been his specialty. They were hardly worth it after the fence's take and the percentage to launder the money. Especially now, when her expenses were hitting six figures a year. He had no time to waste on nickel and dime stuff. Parker needed someplace, not a bank, that would have enough cash on hand right now. Someplace that wouldn't report a robbery, that was amenable to his particular set of skills. And he needed it fast._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Middleman is completely sincere, he has a large vocabulary, and if you listen to his non-swearing he has no ear for what sounds unintentionally ridiculous. He's the perfect candidate for writing horrible poetry. With perfect rhyme and meter, though; he'd work very hard on that part.


	6. In Our Midst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murder mystery plot. The king-sized bed. And you don't think people get that many behavioral tics because they've lived happy lives, do you? Also, orphans.

Their target Immortal was a needle in a city-sized haystack. If anyone caught him before he killed again it would probably be the ordinary police. They didn't understand the supernormal aspects of the case, but they had numbers on their side and had given a decapitation serial killer the priority he deserved. The Middleman and his team could only concentrate on the aspects the police didn't understand, and hope for good luck.

Pierson made several calls to local Watchers. By the end of the day his local Immortals -- considered now as potential victims instead of cleared suspects -- had been lured out of town on various pretexts. If their killer wanted Immortal heads as well as ready cash, this was the only place in the city limits he'd find one. The other half of the bait was Ida's job. It would only work if Kaspar-Willis-Parker physically passed within Immortal-sensing range of headquarters, but it was the best they could do.

"There's no question of turning him over to the police," Adam Pierson said when everything was ready. "If prison can't hold him, he'd go back to killing. And if it can … a prisoner who doesn't age over a life sentence would raise questions we can't answer."

The Middleman nodded. Wendy could see the Navy SEAL under the surface, the man who hadn't shot high-tech gadget guns into aliens and demons but bullets into human beings. "That would follow. We can sometimes relocate wrongdoers and intimidate them into good behavior. He won't intimidate." Wendy felt small and shaky inside. She tried to get a grip before one of the older men noticed.

"I'll do it," Pierson said. His matter-of-fact calm was terrifying. "Waste not, want not… We'll get him well away from witnesses and innocent bystanders, if we can. Or messy and public if we must. This can't go on."

"Yeah. I get that." Wendy shook her head. "My roommate Lacey, she won't even let me cook hamburgers at the sublet because meat is murder. She'd flip out."

\--

There was a certain amount of social awkwardness after dinner (more sandwiches). Everyone would be staying at HQ; they were now technically on a stakeout. Ida's role kept her in the entry foyer, which gave Wendy a break from the usual snarking. But Adam Pierson, nice as he was, was a stranger. Wendy wasn't up to saying "Let's go upstairs and try out that comfy new bed" in front of him. She knew, too, that her Middleman wasn't going to make assumptions about sleeping arrangements this soon without a direct invitation.

Everyone acted like it was an ordinary late-night work session, getting through the backlog of office chores and paperwork. Adam sat with a big volume from the archives, as close to the street as possible for maximum Immortal-bait effectiveness. Wendy didn't think she was fooling anyone. The filing got really, really organized.

When it got late enough Adam excused himself, with a straight face, to the guest quarters closest to the street. Wendy fidgeted with the last few papers some more, feeling like she was on a first date. A blind date. Her body was tingling all over, but she couldn't figure out how to start.

Big, gentle hands on her shoulders; she jumped. He turned her to face him and just watched for a few seconds. Then, "My turn." He drew her in; Wendy flowed up against his body.

They were outside the door of her room some busy, heart-pounding time later. Wendy thought she might have gotten carried up the stairs. Her Middleman let her down to unlock the door, wrapped around her smaller body again the instant they got inside.

He drew back again, trying to control his breathing. "Wendy…"

God. What a boy scout. "If you offer me a chance to back out again, I will _hit_ you."

Another one of those wide, to-die-for grins. "Just asking." He lifted her off her feet in something like a gentle tackle.

If this was her Middleman out of practice, then Wendy was going to die of sex once he got back on track. He undressed her with delicate concentration, leaving her nothing to do but lie back and tingle. His hands explored every inch of her. Judging by the sounds he murmured against her skin, he liked it all.

Wendy remembered thinking of her own body as separate territories -- not sexy, slightly sexy, very sexy, "you want to touch that? Eww." She remembered laying down ground rules -- what to touch on a first date, a one-nighter, a serious relationship, or again "Eww." Two days ago. She never wanted to live like that again. Now there was just _her_ filling every bit of her naked skin, and him filling every bit of his; no limits.

He'd rolled her onto her stomach sometime during the commotion. He was sucking on the back of her _knee_ , with the same intent focus, and that alone was rocking her on small, steady waves of orgasm. She didn't often get multiples, never this easily. Wendy moaned. "God. Do me before I go crazy."

"I love watching you." She tried to squirm over onto her back; he caught her hands. "Not yet." He turned beside her, pressing his whole body hard against her back. Very hard. One arm under her head, the other hand tracing down neck, breasts, the curve of her stomach. Closer.

The hand pounced. She screamed out loud. Her thighs clutched tightly enough to break a lesser man's wrist. He kept on, opening her like flower petals, sliding fingers into her wet warm core. She clamped down on those, too. "Please now."

He let her move. His eyes, when Wendy faced him, were glazed with the same need. She grabbed the back of his head, her fingers slipping in the short hair, and pulled a hard, demanding kiss down onto her mouth.

He shifted and she moaned. His body came down hard, on her and in her, every possible inch of skin trying to meld with hers. He was heavy but she was warm and supple, pulsing with a newfound strength of her own; he couldn't have hurt her if he'd wanted to. Her teeth slid across warm smooth shoulder muscle, found a grip. The world receded. Here and now was only their moving bodies, pleasure rippling over them like lightning.

She locked her ankles around his waist. The shift in angle sent him over the edge. Wendy kept on squeezing, felt him keep on pulsing; she'd had no idea men could do multiples. The feel of him sent her off again on a round of her own. She locked on him with arms and legs and the devouring, pulsing part of her that had sandbagged her brain and taken over.

At some point later on they were lying a little apart, limp as shipwreck victims washed up on shore. His face was buried in a pillow. One of his hands, apparently on its own initiative, felt its way to the bedside table. He brought out a neatly folded towel and then, last energy drained, let it flop onto the edge of the bed.

 _All that and practical too._ Wendy, with a little more strength left, reached across him and snagged the towel. "Thanks." The hand waved weakly, the face stayed smushed into the pillow.

He must have run out of oxygen. When she was ready to hand him the towel he took it. He rolled three-quarters onto his back and tidied up, watching her steadily just for the joy of it. His eyes were shining. Her Middleman moved just enough to rest one hand on her temple, lightly stroking her hair.

"I broke my index finger when I was a kid," Wendy whispered. "Six weeks in a splint, on my painting hand too. It drove me nuts. Every time I tried to write or draw or answer the phone, that thing was in the way. I had to stop every time, and think about what I was doing and do it some other clumsy left-handed way."

"I don't understand."

Wendy turned a little, kissed the palm of his hand. "Having you is like the day that splint came _off_. No more second-guessing myself, trying not to do the things that feel natural. You're my boss and my friend and my lover. I don't have to stop and figure it out, what I need or who I trust or who has my back. I just reach out, and there you are."

"Always." It was a promise. He'd never said the l-word -- neither had Wendy -- but that whisper said everything. They drifted into sleep, touching a little so they wouldn't get lost.

\--

The Middleman was in bed, not alone. He was aware of soft breathing warmth on the other side of the bed. He was naked, deeply rested, happy…

For one muddled second he thought it was a dream, crueler than a nightmare because it would end. Then he thought ten years of _that_ had been the dream, and he was home. He made himself stop, take controlled breaths until he was fully awake. He had light enough to see a clear profile and a tangled mop of hair on the other pillow. _Thank God_. Not a dream, not a nightmare. Wendy.

She was so fierce and fragile, so clear-sighted in the face of the confusing world he'd shown her, so cool in a crisis. When her time came to be the Middleman, she was going to be legendary. And beyond all hope, even braver than that. Brave enough to look into a wrecked soul held together by scar tissue and cowboy movies and say, _I can handle that. I want to_. She made him feel things he'd hadn't felt since … since he'd had a name.

He might have it again, some day. She'd stood up to everything from her ex's careless cruelty to the gates of the Underworld. In time, he thought that she could take in his whole history without flinching. And if she could, he could too.

Her presence had frightened his old nightmares away. But there might be a new one. He dressed in the dark and slipped out of her room without waking her. There was a computer terminal in an alcove at the other end of the hall. "Ida, give me internal surveillance tapes of Pierson throughout the day."

He played the vast majority at high speed, watching the Immortal move from dusty stacks of old Middleman documentation to the archive's computer terminal at high speed. When Wendy joined the scene he dropped the speed back to normal. He stopped the video file at several points, pausing for thought, and played it through again.

He felt a few stabs of jealousy. While Wendy seemed impervious to Pierson's charm, the man did have youthful _brio_. And would keep it forever. The Middleman put the envy aside and keyed his watch. "Ida. You got extensive data downloads from the Watchers. What does being an orphan have to do with Immortals?"

"Huh? Hang on." A pause. "You know how they're all raised by regular families? Well, they aren't born there. They just turn up, as babies. You figure the Watchers would have researched where they come from before that, but they claim they haven't got a clue." Ida paused. "Come to think of it, weren't you…"

"Override." It snapped out like an order in combat. "Alpha priority. You will not discuss this conversation, or this surveillance tape, with Wendy Watson for any reason without my direct authorization."

"Working." The humanity drained momentarily from Ida's voice. Then she was herself again, with hurt feelings. "Boss, you could have just _asked_."

"I'm sorry. You're right, Ida, I should have." He leaned forward, feeling weary all over again. "Where's Pierson now?"

"Ground floor guest suite. He snores like a chain saw. Must be that big honkin' nose. We haven't gotten a nibble, boss. I'll call you the second we do."

"I know, Ida. Thank you." He went back to Wendy's bed. Her breathing and her scent soothed him, but it was a long time before he slept.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That plot gun that's been hanging over the mantle since Part 4? Kaboom. Also, a certain trap is sprung.

The entry foyer had been remodeled from a seedy temp agency to the equally seedy Jolly Fats Wehawkin Payday Loan Co. A swinging door with a lock next to the counter was a token nod to security. The new 'company name' in garish neon was the only decoration in sight. Ida, without visible wires, was dressed in jeans and a biker t-shirt. She looked like exactly the sort of person who'd run a barely-legal moneylending dive.

Adam waited just inside the control room, ready to charge into the foyer on a second's notice. A two-edged sword, palm-wide at the base tapering to a narrow triangular point, rested between his hands. "Quiet night," he reported. "A drunk came in around five a.m. wanting to pawn something; your Ida got rid of him without actual bodily harm. Not a flicker of another Immortal in my range."

"We'll keep trying." The Middleman was back to his professional self this morning, clean-shaven in a crisp uniform. The man she'd known last night wasn't gone, Wendy knew, but set aside. She could live with that.

"Let's clear the air a bit, though. While we have the time," the Middleman continued. Hairs stood up on the back of Wendy's neck. That wasn't just his on-the-job voice but his combat one. "For a start, I'm very much against the defacement of books. Methos."

 _What? That was the five-thousand-year-old guy, Adam said._ Wendy's disbelief didn't last long enough for her to voice it. Adam Pierson had shifted his weight, his grip on the sword. The face was still a bookish grad student younger than the boss, but…

Wendy would have sworn that she had no idea what a five-thousand-year-old man's eyes would look like. She knew now. She took a half step backward.

"You're very clever," said Methos. "That takes most people years to guess, if ever."

The Middleman shrugged. "I can't take credit. Last night I watched the surveillance tapes from our archive. I'd been wondering why you were so anxious to see it, when those records had nothing to do with the case. You destroyed, page 80, volume 15, from the Spanish Mission era records. But as it happens, Ida has scanned a considerable proportion of the older archives into HEYDAR." He rapped one key on the controls. A page appeared on the screen, a pen-and-ink sketch with a one-word label.

"Good likeness," said Wendy, the artist.

Methos smiled Adam's smile; it was chilling in context. "Well then, you do have me. Internal surveillance. I'd flattered myself I was adapted to modern technology."

The Middleman's hands were conspicuously far from the gun on his hip. They were weapons themselves, though; Wendy wondered if Methos had guessed it. "Did the Watchers send you at all?" her boss asked.

"Oh yes," he said easily. "That part was true. Adam Pierson has been a Watcher quite some time now. A disguise as a hound is the very best kind for a hunted fox, if it can be arranged. I think Adam will have to die soon, though; he's getting a bit long in the tooth." Methos slowly, gently laid his sword on a table. "What do you want?"

"You said you can sense which people will become Immortal," the Middleman said. "At different times, you've quizzed both of us on the warning signs, such as being a foundling. We… I… that has to stop. Please."

 _We?_ But Wendy was less irritated than confused. "You _don't_ want to know? Comic book superpowers, never grow old, never die? Sounds good to me."

Her Middleman gave her a second's look of agony that rocked Wendy back on her heels. Methos seemed to have caught it too; he nodded thoughtfully. "Leaving it unsaid won't change the outcome."

"Nevertheless…"

Ida's voice came over the intercom, half-formed words followed by a screech of overstressed metal. " _Shit."_ Methos swept up his sword and charged for the entrance. The Middleman hit the double doors at the same instant he did.

Ida lay in one corner of the foyer, neck twisted at a killing angle. A man in a dark sweater was on the far side of the counter, emptying the new cash register with practiced speed. The Middleman, with the advantage of longer legs, hit the top of the counter first.

The killer was dark-haired and -eyed, about the Middleman's height but heavier in build. Veins stood out in his hands and forearms, like a weight lifter's. The Middleman tried some Sensei-Ping-inspired complexity on the other man's upper arm. It only held an instant. The killer replied with five or six straightforward boxer' punches to the Middleman's chest and stomach, horribly fast, resounding like gunshots.

Methos came in at a trickier angle, sword swinging wide. Kaspar-Willis-Parker picked up a handy large object, the Middleman, and threw him. Methos got the sword down in time not to skewer his ally, but they fell in a tangle of arms and legs.

A second of mid-combat stillness. Wendy was crouched in the corner checking Ida. An older terror than comic book evil froze her blood. _I'm a girl, he's a big violent man, he'll do whatever he wants…_ She shook it off, at least enough to draw her gun. He turned, landing one last kick on the pile of her friends, and was gone.

Wendy was pretty fast on foot, she had a gun; she summoned her courage to run after the killer. Her name, in a pained gasp, stopped her.

Methos was sitting up, wincing, his left arm clamped tightly to his side. Her Middleman still lay on the floor, white-faced and moving feebly. Wendy sank to her knees. "I'm a doctor," Methos said calmly. "I even trained once in the twentieth century. Don't let him get up. Talk to him. This will hurt."

Wendy cradled the Middleman's face in her hands. He was white-faced and sweating but his eyes tracked her, lips forming her name. She stroked his hair desperately. "Oh, God. Don't… you can't …"

Methos pressed down on his torso; he made a thin sound. "Ribs," Methos said. "At least three cracked on the right side. One's close to snapping right through. I don't think he ruptured your spleen, you'd be bleeding out. But he had a good try."

"Trying to break his arm," the Middleman got out.

"You did," Methos said. "He just didn't stop for it. Pain is easier to ignore when you know it won't last. Utter insanity helps as well. I think you can walk, if I strap the ribs and you don't do anything more heroic for a few weeks."

Wendy was able to breathe, hearing that. She noticed that Methos was still working one-handed. "How about you?"

"That would be a broken collarbone." Methos touched his own chest clinically. "Another ten minutes." He saw Wendy flinch. "We aren't human. Don't ever think of us as human," Methos said. "Your true-love isn't all wrong, wanting to avoid this fate." He glanced at the corner. "I'm sorry about your Ida."

A metallic scrabbling noise, like a broken insect. "Tougher than _you_ , you lying little weasel." Ida's voice was muffled against the wall. "Make yourself useful, stoner queen. I can't reroute motor functions until I get my neck straight." Wendy grinned, and pulled her up by both hands.

Ida made a noise like a bad manual transmission and wrenched her head into a normal position. Her arms and legs came to life. "Don't worry about the boss, toots, he's had worse. Our infirmary is rigged to handle anything but a brain tumor. I'll get him." Ida scooped the Middleman up in her arms, a bizarre sight when he was twice her size. "The amount of time I spend cleaning up after you meat bags, and then what? You let the guy get away."

Wendy put 'torture Ida' back on her to-do list. "We were a little busy."

"She's right," the Middleman breathed out. "He won't fall for another trap."

"You're so lucky to have me," said Ida. "Data match came through while I was offline. Secondary information, but not a hundred miles away. We've got a Charles Willis listed as next-of-kin to a nursing home patient, Claire Willis. He's marked down as her son; I wouldn't bet on it."

"Then he can't run far," Methos said. "We have him."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endgame. It gets messy.

The Middleman could move under his own power, a set of supportive bandages and a round of painkillers later, but no one would mistake him for a well man. He wouldn't stay behind. He wouldn't even argue it. Wendy had to wobble her lower lip shamelessly to stop him driving. For purely selfish reasons she sat beside him in the back of the Middlemobile, holding hands. Methos contrived to suggest, with one ironic eyebrow, that he didn't normally play chauffeur but he made no complaints.

Methos was a good driver, but the highway budget for pothole repair had gone down in recent years. The Middleman flinched, and Wendy flinched, every time they hit an irregularity in the road. He doesn't deserve this. Wendy found herself glaring toward the back of Methos' head. And he shook off a broken bone before he could finish a latte. If she'd had an Immortality ray or portion or something like that, she'd have fixed her Middleman on the spot.

Not that pain had ever stopped him. Wendy tried to warm his chilled, sweaty hands between her own. "You don't need these guys," she said. "Hell with mutant powers. You're less afraid of death than anybody I've ever met. You'll manage fine not being Immortal."

He squeezed her hand back. "We'll talk later. Don't worry about it."

"That's not it at all." Methos snarled as if personally offended. "You seem intelligent. Think it through." He fixed his eyes determinedly back on the road. The Middleman patted her hand; at least he wasn't holding grudges about whatever.

The nursing home had valet parking and high-maintenance landscaping and everything that went with it. "Ida ran a scan on the health care company," the Middleman said. He'd caught his breath better once the car had stopped jolting him. "All the luxury bells and whistles, lots of them. She hadn't had time to break into Mrs. Willis' specific records before we left."

"If you'll forgive me saying so, your organization isn't the best at cover stories." Methos opened a small suitcase beside him on the seat, took out a white lab coat. A glossy black case over his shoulder looked like it held bulky medical equipment instead of a sword. "I'll take this little chore."

The white coat, a good ID, and genuine medical jargon got "Dr. Adam Pierson" full access to the medical records room. The sweet-nerdy-guy smile got him permission to take a file away. "Claire Willis was admitted five years ago, with partial paralysis from a stroke," Methos said in the hallway. "She's sixty-six now. Apart from the stroke she's got a bad heart, probably an ex-smoker. Very fragile. Very much in need of full-time care, and definitely getting the best. I'd say she's paid them over a million dollars since she's been here, or someone has."

"Funny motive for a homicidal maniac," Wendy said, without sympathy. The Middleman kept trying to get into his ordinary shoulders-back posture, wincing, and walking in a slouch again.

"Is she able to talk to us?" he asked, a little breathless.

"I don't see why not. I have her room number here," Methos said. "The elevator, I think."

Room 418 was a gem even in this comfortable haven, a corner room with two banks of sunny windows. A nurse's aide was leaving with a covered tray as they entered. The woman inside was seated in a high-backed powered wheelchair, her white hair freshly styled, wearing a colorful dress with a coordinated blanket draped over her legs. The left side of her face sagged, but the line of her cheekbones and chin showed the remains of classic beauty. An IV hung from a post at the back of the chair, feeding a port in her slack hand that looked like a permanent installation.

She turned the chair toward them with a flick of the wrist. A moment of happiness in the live side of her face drained away as she took in Methos' medical coat, the two Middlemen uniforms. "Police."

"Not exactly," said the Middleman. He half-leaned against the door frame and breathed more easily. "Ronald Kaspar. Charles Willis. Parker."

The older woman already looked worn and faded; now the last color drained from her face. "Something's happened to Parker."

"He's been happening to people," Wendy said harshly. "Robberies. Two guys without heads. And he broke the neck of what he thought was a crabby fat lady, not three hours ago."

Claire Willis was shaking her head. "He's a thief, he always was. And he can kill. But without a reason … I told him I didn't need all this. I can be comfortable anywhere as long as he's with me."

"It's not about money," Methos said. "It's not even about Quickenings." Claire reacted to the word; Methos nodded. "You know what he is. You know he's gone mad. This has to end."

"He's not really like this," Claire said hopelessly. "He was … he's always been dangerous. Even his friends, the people he worked with, thought he was cold steel with no emotions. But he lit up, for me. He felt for me like he'd couldn't feel with anyone else, a gentle side. He's mine. We love each other. You can't have him."

Wendy wasn't quite touching the Middleman, but she felt his warmth close by. He's mine. We love each other. Yours is going down. "Sorry, lady. We don't have any choice."

"I won't tell him you were here." Claire was pleading now. "Just go ahead and leave."

Methos had been staring at the floor, uncomfortable and unsettled, as Claire's voice went on. Now his chin came up, eyes blazing. He turned toward the door. "A Quickening. Strong signal. He's here." His eyes moved over Wendy and the wounded Middleman. "This is my job. You should run."

The Middleman shook his head. "Go, Wendy. Please."

She drew her gun, a little clumsily; the weight in her hand was a comfort. "No chance in hell." Claire, behind her, was weeping.

Methos had loosened the fasteners on his sword-carrier. His hand slipped inside. "The most common term among Immortals is the buzz," he said as if narrating an informational video. "Like a ringing in the ears, if you've had that, except that it doesn't block hearing. Once you know you're in another Immortal's presence you can tune the feeling out, but it's quite the early warning mechanism." His face was rigid, apparent youth gone. "You know how to reach the Watchers, if there's a reason to. It's been good working with you."

The Middleman was leaning on the wall with both hands now, nothing left to draw his own gun. "Likewise."

Then the big man was in the doorway. He stood statue-still for a second, taking them all in, shifted … Claire shrieked before he could strike anyone. "No! They haven't done anything."

"Yeah." The flat dark eyes, like obsidian chips, rested on Wendy; she shuddered. "Put that gun down before you hurt yourself," Parker said calmly. This is your only warning didn't need spelling out.

"Not in this lifetime," the Middleman gritted out, swaying.

"Just let them leave," Claire said doggedly. "They don't matter. I've never asked you to put a fight aside…"

Methos stepped forward a little, hands held out at his sides. "You want to fight?" he aimed at Parker. "We'll fight. They aren't part of this. You know the rules."

Parker shrugged. Rules. "You want them left out? I'll fight you. But first tell me how to get your Immortality," his gesture had an air of tearing Methos' heart out, "into her." Claire.

"There is no way," Methos said. "Don't you think others have wanted to? I saw a woman I loved die slowly, in a place like this. Not even of old age. I couldn't do a thing."

Parker shrugged, disbelieving. "I'll figure it out, then." He charged bare-handed.

Methos' sword snagged on its carrying bag, came out too slowly. The Middleman launched himself off the wall, blocking the big man's path to Wendy. His hands stretched out for Sensei Ping's Red Flowers. A massive elbow landed on his bandaged ribs. He dropped as if broken in half. Wendy wailed agony, lost track of the fact she was holding a gun.

In a heartbeat of silence, before anyone hurt anyone else further, Methos turned. He still held the sword case. He sprinted down the corridor like a rabbit.

"Fucking little coward…." Wendy barely noticed the gun being plucked from her hand. She sank down beside her Middleman. Then Parker was gone, also running. She didn't care. She wanted to die, she wanted to kill someone with her hands. Almost anyone. "Coward."

But she could go on living; he was breathing even if painfully, his pulse strong under her hand. "Not a coward," the Middleman said urgently. "Drawing the fight away from us. I'm fine. You have to go, we can't let him lose. I wish I could … please. Be careful."

"I can't."

"You can. It's why I picked you. It's what we do." He shoved against her fingers, no force behind it but sheer willpower. "Go."

Wendy's tears stopped streaming. She wondered, detached, how that had happened. She squeezed his hand once and stood, rigid as a statue. "Be here. I need you." She ran, too.

It wasn't hard tracking two armed running men through a nursing home. Panic and chaos left an unmistakable trail. Orderlies and security guards scrambled like ants in a smashed anthill. They let a small, slender girl pass where the armed Middleman might have been stopped. She kept dreading to find a broken twisted Methos, or a broken twisted innocent bystander; she saw nothing. Two flights of stairs, then another one. The glass doors of the emergency exit were still slowly swinging closed. She hit them hard and ran outside, to a grimy parking and delivery area at the back of the building.

It should have been over by now. Methos moved with swift agility, the sword dancing in his hand like a matador's. Wendy saw her gun lying smashed in a corner; the other man was unarmed. It should have been a slaughter. But the bigger man had gone someplace beyond pain or fear, and his wounds healed as fast as they were made. Wendy pounded to a stop, afraid of being a fatal distraction.

Something else was; a glint of sunlight, a flying drop of blood. Methos' sword sailed high and landed point first, striking sparks on the concrete. Parker was on him like a bear, fists pounding. Methos was quick but he was lightly built, not very tall. Sane. When he tried to fight back his arms were knocked aside, bones grinding, flesh pulping under the hammer blows.

Wendy ran fast, lightly, trying to shut out everything but her training. Not the stench of human blood, the awful sound of blows, the keening noise from a friend's mouth. The sword. She found the right grip automatically, gathered her hard-trained muscles. Leaped.

The Middleman stirred weakly on the floor, trying to find a way to rise that wouldn't make him pass out. She was in danger, he'd put her in danger, and he was useless to her. Couldn't even get to his knees… the soft whirr of rubber wheels on tile cut through his self-loathing reverie. He let his eyes come open. Claire's wheelchair was close beside him, the woman herself peering down. The living side of her face was nearly as motionless as the dead side, now.

"This is my fault." Claire's voice was thoughtful, a little distant. "Your friend is right; I knew what Parker was becoming. This feels so strange. I've never talked about him to anyone … but he loved me, you see. It was seeing me suffer, knowing that he had to go on year after year when I was gone … I don't suppose that makes any sense."

"It does," the Middleman said. "More than you know."

"I didn't want to leave him alone. Even if it meant living like this. I was a fool," Claire said. "You're a nice young man. I'm sure people will come and help you soon." She swung the chair around on its electric motor, to the wide door of the handicapped-accessible bathroom in her suite. The door closed behind her.

The Middleman guessed, then. He tried to get to his hands and knees, much too fast. He felt one of his damaged ribs give way completely; the pain drowned him.

Wendy leaped, sword point out, trying not to think. I happen to be a pacifist, she'd told the Middleman the day they met.

The blade, at the perfect angle, slipped between the big man's ribs with her full weight behind it. His living body froze as if he'd been struck by lightning, fisted hands falling away from Methos' battered body.

Lacey won't even let me cook hamburgers…

He jerked, survival skills so practiced they amounted to spinal reflexes, grabbing at the sword-point that blossomed from his chest. She felt a faint resistance that must be the tough muscle of the heart itself, as the wider parts of the blade sliced through it.

Methos, also good at survival, dragged himself to one side. The big man fell like a tree. Wendy clung to his back like a wildcat. She haggled the blade to one side, widening the wound, just to be sure. The hilt slammed into the big man's back.

She'd flip out.

There was surprisingly little blood. His heart must have stopped in the first instant. Her white shirt was still spotless, and she'd gotten messier hands from ten minutes of painting. She fought the urge to wipe them on her uniform pants.

She'd never noticed before how dead dead people looked. Living people moved a little bit all the time, if only to breathe. Absolute stillness was a horror. Not exactly dead. If some fool pulled the blade out of his heart, he'd be Immortally alive again. But dead enough.

Methos lay dazed on the oil-stained parking lot, in a scatter of his own blood. The bruises on his face dissolved like Halloween makeup in water. His long nose, smashed sideways, set itself and healed as she watched. A couple of broken fingers did the same. He twitched as if that part hurt.

Wendy was telling herself very firmly that a good Middleman would not throw up, when Methos' eyes opened and tracked on her. He sat up cautiously. "Thank you. That took a lot of courage."

"I had to." And I'd do it again. Wendy wasn't happy to know that about herself. She'd have done it with teeth and fingernails, right down to the beheading. Because if they'd lost then Parker would have backtracked to her Middleman, already wounded. She'd do anything to protect him.

Methos seemed to read some of her turmoil; he gave her room. He went to a pile of cardboard boxes near the parking lot's loading dock, piled several over the other Immortal in temporary concealment. "He has a car around here somewhere. I'll use that. Neither of you have to be involved in the rest of the cleanup."

Wendy shook her head. "I just want to see Boss." Everything would be better, then.

The fourth floor was bustling with nurses and EMT's. Two of them wheeled a sheet-covered stretcher out of Claire Willis' room. Wendy felt a scream rising up in her throat. It stopped when she saw a woman's hand half-uncovered at the edge; slack, wrinkled with age, a dark bloodstain visible at the wrist. She still felt sick, but her heart went on beating.

Methos quietly steered her toward an alcove a few doors down, a room-sized space fitted with visitor's chairs. Her Middleman was sitting there, deathly pale but upright. Wendy sank down beside him. She leaned her forehead on his shoulder, too weary for anything else.

"I tried to stop her," the Middleman said. "She'd locked the door. She said she couldn't leave him alone, before this." He stroked Wendy's hair as if nothing else on earth mattered. "But you're not hurt." Wendy showed him one bloodstained hand, palm up. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"You're alive," Methos said quietly. "Both of you. Everything else heals."

Puzzle pieces came together in Wendy's mind. "This is why," she said. "Why you didn't want to know about immortality. Not because it might not be you. Because it might not be me."

"I've started hoping for a life with you," he said with effort. "Immortality with you would be just as good. But if we're going to be separated … I can't do much about it. But I'd never have another minute's peace if I could see it coming." He glanced at Methos. "Please."

Wendy would have said anything to spare him pain. But he was also right. She grasped the Middleman's hands; he didn't pull back from the stains. "Me neither, then." She glared a warning at Methos. "Surprise it is."

A slow, ironic smile spread across Methos' face. "As you wish. I think I'll say goodbye; work to do."

Wendy looked up. "Methos. One more thing."

He paused. "If I can."

She gestured at the covered stretcher. "Maybe Claire was right. Maybe he did love her." She could have lost her beloved. But she hadn't, and she had room for mercy now. "Parker can't be let live. But he doesn't have to know what happened to her." The Middleman squeezed her hand, supporting her.

Methos smiled too. "It's been an honor to meet you, Wendy Watson." He gave the Middleman a comradely nod, brushed a quick chaste kiss on Wendy's cheek. "Thanks for the help." He sauntered away, his casual air making him almost invisible amid the medical chaos. Then he was gone.

The Middleman looked affronted. Wendy leaned into him, smiling quietly. A bare whisper, when Methos' lips had passed close to her ear. He worries too much.

It could wait. Wendy didn't care about her fate, if her Middleman had the same one. "You can take me home now," she said against his neck. "If you can still walk."

He chuckled, stopped suddenly on a sharp intake of breath. "I won't refuse help." Between Wendy's shoulder and the arms of the chair he maneuvered himself to his feet. "Er… the sublet? Or our headquarters."

Wendy got a firm grip on his hand. "Maybe your place tonight, mine tomorrow. That doesn't matter." She was going to make him rest, if possible without breaking physical contact for a second. "Home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I killed Parker. Me bastard.  
> The easiest way to meet the character in his original non-insane state is to rent Payback starring Mel Gibson. While his name is changed to Porter for some reason, he's a faithful version of the original character. He's the good guy, as these things go.


End file.
